


Kinship

by thrushrut



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-05
Updated: 2017-04-05
Packaged: 2018-10-15 04:08:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10549826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thrushrut/pseuds/thrushrut
Summary: No one wanted to be with him.Not his mother, not his father, none of his precious pets, no other galra.No one.





	

“Pet”

 

No response greets the prompt, it is met with a cold silence that chills the room. But the voice is persistent, and calls louder. 

 

“Pet”

 

Not a twitch, nor a shiver, yet there were signs of life in the body before the prince, just not a willingness to engage with him.

 

“Lance,” the voice finally stresses, and this draws a reaction, albeit small, a tilt of the head in his direction, it was pathetically satisfying. 

 

Lotor, prince of galra, withers before the object of his affections, one, Lance of Voltron. The paladin had been brought to him as a gift to keep him out of his father’s hair, yet Lotor had become consumed with this strange beauty the second they’d thrown him to the floor at his feet.

 

The feeling had not been mutual much to his immediate disappointment and confusion. But Lotor was nothing if not persistent, attempting to charm and dazzle the other into companionship. Yet he feared his mind was beginning to fray from the sheer frustration of the stalemate Lance presented him.

 

“You have not eaten,” he points out, mindful to keep his voice low and soft. The druids had often told him as a boy that the sound of his emotions was pitchy and distasteful. “Why won’t you eat? I made sure the food was pleasing to your palate.” Lance finally shifts, curling up tighter into himself among the many satin pillows in his bed, body shifting farther from Lotor’s reach.

 

He does not speak, but the only words he’d ever said echo horribly in Lotor’s mind. _ “I want to go home! I want to be with my family! I don’t want to see you, go away!”  _ He feels sick, has felt sick for a while over it, they whisper to him often. 

 

But the voice that speaks them is not just Lances, there were many others, others his father brought to keep him occupied like a child with silly toys. Toys that he never treated as such, they were treasures who had the best he, a prince, could offer.

 

They could want for nothing, given their own spacious quarters lavished in the finest fabrics, metals, and jewels. Lotor had them dressed much the same, in beautiful colors and accessories to showcase how exquisite they are. 

 

But they always screamed, would not eat, would shred anything they could get their hands on until Haggar would notice the ruckus and have them executed. He gently curls his hand to stave off a tremor at the thought of Lance’s pretty blue eyes void of life and his body painted in scarlet blood. 

 

Something is stirring in his chest, a seed that has been growing for so long it’s blended in with the rest of his organs; slumbering in his veins like a great beast. It feels tight, like he’s swallowed something too great and dense for his body to handle. 

 

He tries again, not noticing the edge of desperation that flavors his words. “Lance please, you have to eat something or you’ll waste away.” Sharp blue eyes finally meet his own, and what’s in them forces Lotor back a step. Malice, pure malice, hatred, he can see himself in those eyes hated so much the tremble finds its way back into his body with vigor.

 

Warm lips painted in a sneer finally open, “anything would be better than being with you.” And the thing inside Lotor’s chest soundly rises, leaving his ears ringing with a deafening roar. It’s disorienting, it swallows him whole without warning and reduces his heart to a panicked mess.

 

No one wanted to be with him.

 

Not his mother, not his father, none of his precious pets, no other galra.

 

No one.

 

Lance has fully turned over, eyes wide with surprise, Lotor does not notice he’s spoken those words out loud. He is all consumed, he is not Lotor anymore, he is anguish, he is anger. The monster drops into his stomach and burns him with a sense of fury, it wasn’t fair. Why did no one want him? Why was he so ugly and broken and useless that no one wanted him?

 

He had to let it out, before it burned his blood to smoke and bones to ash. Lotor reaches blindly for something heavy and once he makes contact, a weighted vase in hand; he slams it violently into the floor, colored sand spraying in a frenzied arc. From there it’s a typhoon, glass shards littering the ground, ribbons of curtains fluttering in the air, bedding showering down like monsoons. 

 

All with Lotor at the eye of the storm, a being of a rage so white hot it’s almost like an ice spreading across every inch of him. He does not know how long he rages for, time has no meaning in agony and heartbreak.

 

Not until a large piece of glass pierces his glove on a particularly heavy impact, snapping him back into himself in a jolt of awareness. He blinks, and suddenly he is Lotor, son of Zarkon, slumped pathetically in the center of his destruction with a bleeding wrist. 

 

Glossy eyes survey the damage with only one bland thought buzzing in his skull; that his ribbon had been ripped out in the fray, his hair is wild and unkempt splayed around his face in matted curls. Something falls into his line of sight soon after, splashing against his tattered glove. Then there is another, and another, and numbly Lotor acknowledges he’s crying.

 

A quiet sob makes its way past his lips and he's so cold and broken, if he could crush his body to dust and reshape it into something everybody wanted he would do it in an instant. But he cannot, he is here, bleeding foolishly all over the floor and crying like a child. 

 

Without warning, fingers brush his wrist, smearing blood along the fabric and eliciting a quiet hiss of pain from his mouth. Yet another hand comes into view, both of them clamping down to try to stop the bleeding. Lotor follows one of the arms up to the body they’re connected to and can’t fully grasp that Lance is in front of him.

 

The human is strong, not enough to harm the prince but enough to give him a comforting pressure that makes breathing a little easier. When Lance looks at him this time, those eyes are glossy and wounded, mouth dragged in a worried frown. All too suddenly logical thought comes roaring back, and Lotor is acutely aware of his precious treasure kneeling in shards of glass and metal.

 

He’s quick to act, bundling the other to his chest and hoisting him off the ground, paying no mind to the weakness in his knees at the abuse. “I’m so sorry,” the words find their way out before he can stop them. “I’m sorry, I’ve ruined everything, let me get you cleaned up and in new rooms, I’ve hurt you, I’m….”  _ ‘A monster,’ _ his brain supplies happily, _ ‘a monster that this pet will never love.’ _

 

Before he can continue, something touches his cheek and his body locks up like a seized machine. Lance, it’s Lance, he appears wholly unconcerned with the wounds on his legs, choosing instead to run gentle hesitant fingers across Lotor’s wet cheeks. 

 

Then, his lips part, and the air in Lotor’s lungs freeze less he ruins the moment. “I know how it feels,” the paladin whispers, his voice raw with kinship. “I know what it’s like, to be lonely, and unloved, and to think you’re not good enough.”

 

His breath catches and trembles and Lotor carefully tucks him closer, ignoring the throbbing in his arm. “I know what it’s like to want to be somebody better than yourself because no one likes you.”  _ ‘Oh,’ _ a little voice thinks as the paladin weeps quietly against his crumpled shirt, for himself, and for Lotor, _ ‘we’re the same.’ _

 

No more words are exchanged between them as Lotor hurries them to the druids; owning up fully to his tantrum and being subsequently punished by one of the kinder lower apprentices. He does not care that his body is on fire, so long as Lance’s wounds are healed. The paladin seems to have other thoughts about it however, and refuses to be lead anywhere but Lotor’s quarters on their way back. 

 

“Bed,” the little human says, one finger jammed at the plush oasis of blankets and pillows that was whispering Lotor’s name. Too tired to ponder on the strange behavior, the prince complies, dumping his boneless body across the area with a soft grateful sigh. He does startle slightly when Lance crawls on a few moments later, sitting close, yet not too close to the lax galra. 

 

He seems to be conflicted, a soft red color spilling across his cheeks before he sinks down and carefully takes one of Lotor’s claws. “I’m sorry,” the words are strange to pointed ears, his confusion evident in the dip of his brows. Lance simply repeats himself until there’s an ache in Lotor’s face, the familiar sting of tears prickling behind his eyes. 

 

Carefully he reaches for the human, drawing Lance back into his space until he can properly hide his tears in the others stomach. The sweet paladin simply brushes at his hair, apologizing over and over until his voice grows thick and he gently hides his face against white locks in return.

 

They fall asleep like this, and when Lotor rouses hours later to the feeling of Lance shifting. He soaks up the comforting warmth and allows a feverish little ember of hope some consideration. 

**Author's Note:**

> nyelloooo! It's been a long time since I've posted something but I'm totally still alive, I've just been working on making charms n stuff lmao.
> 
> I've taken a very deep liking to Lancelot, my personal flavor being the Soft™ kind where they have a healthy relationship and help each other out with their feelings of inadequacy. 
> 
> Here's a snippet I did, a warm up for a larger fic im working on, I hope nyall like it!
> 
> Wanna check out more of my work or request a prompt? Scoot on over to my [tumblr](http://thrushrut.tumblr.com/) or my [twitter!](https://twitter.com/thrushrut)


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